Let The Bullets Fly, Oh Let Them Rain
by Saoirse Laochra
Summary: *Comic-verse/Arkham-verse mix concerning Jason's 'death', recovery, and reintegration into the Bat Family* He really wanted to say they'd rescued him, but unfortunately, that wasn't exactly true. Sure, they'd freed him, whisked him away from Arkham Asylum, and cossetted him comfortably in Wayne Manor.But they didn't understand. You don't 'rescue' people from the Joker. Tags inside
1. Chapter 1

A/N: So I've recently dived head-first into the Arkham Knight game, as well as having been an on-again/off-again fan of the Batman comics. This plot bunny hit, and, well, here we are.

* * *

"Any sign?"

Bruce glanced over at Dick, his face as unreadable as always, his gaze clearly saying what Bruce himself would never say. That it was a stupid question, with an obvious answer, a breath that shouldn't have been wasted on something so pointless.

Dick ignored the look, fixing the older man with a stubborn stare. In the years since his time as Robin - _a time when he would have followed Bruce to Hell itself if he'd asked_ -Dick had learned the hard way that his one-time hero wasn't perfect. That he wasn't unstoppable, that he wasn't all-knowing, and that he certainly wasn't all-capable. The glares that would have once sent him scrambling to find something else to do, somewhere else to be, no longer had any real effect on him, having long since lost their bite.

Bruce held his gaze for exactly thirty-three seconds, before turning back to the wall-sized computer screen, biting out a clipped, "No."

Dick felt his shoulders droop a bit, despite the slight pierce of pride filling his chest at the knowledge that he'd stared down the Bat and won. It was a small, petty victory; worthless in the larger scheme of things. Stupid, really, that he felt the need to force the point, now of all times.

But he didn't let himself focus on that; if there was one thing Richard Grayson was good at, it was distracting himself.

"How the hell can we not find him, Bruce?" He demanded angrily, focusing his rage on a less meaningful target. "We've got CCTV cameras in every corner of the city, minus the Bowery, and Babs has been physically monitoring every picture and recording, every second of whatever security footage she can get her hands on from there… Jesus, he could barely stand upright when he bolted, and somehow, with the best gadgets and surveillance equipment that money can research, and create, we still can't find him!"

Bruce glanced at him out of the corner of the cowl. "Are you finished?"

This time, Dick was unable to hold that gaze, acknowledging the childishness of his actions, as he plopped down into Robin's chair.

The chair that now belonged to Tim Drake, currently at Gotham Academy wrapping up a history test. The chair that had once belonged to him, what seemed like a lifetime ago.

The chair that had once belonged to his younger brother. Jason.

Jason.

For almost three months, Bruce, Dick, Tim, and Barbara had been working around the clock trying to locate their missing bird again, this time after his flight from Wayne Manor. No sign of Jason had been seen since then, despite their efforts.

And the search was taking its toll on the fractured, broken little family of misfits.

Tim, once an A+ student with ease, acing everything and anything his teachers threw at him, had started slipping. 'A's had turned to 'B's, and the latest incarnation of Robin looked perpetually exhausted, despite the fact that he was rarely, if ever, seen without a cup of coffee, or can of Red Bull in hand, or easy reach. It was no secret that, out of the three Robins, Tim had always been the most patient, the most level-headed, and unemotional one, but lately, he'd become as snippy and sharp as Jason used to be during his tenure as Robin.

Barbara wasn't any better; whether on patrol at night, or beating the pavement during the day, Dick made it a point to stop in and check on the one-time Batgirl as often as he could. The amount of times he'd found her asleep, head lolled over the back of her wheelchair, still in front of her precious screens were too numerous to count. Her constant 'grace-under-pressure' persona on the coms, feeding and relaying pinpoint accurate information had become jumbled, lost in a haze of exhaustion and depression.

Bruce had held onto the appearance of normality - _or at least, what passed for it in their family_ -the longest. Years of too little sleep, disappointment, and solitude had taught their patriarch how to hide the exhaustion, hide the emotions, hide the loneliness, better than the rest, but even he was showing signs of slowing down. Bags under his eyes were no longer hidden by the infamous cowl, showing every second of his age, written around the corners of his mouth, and in the slight twitch of his hands every time one of his three remaining children called him unexpectedly.

And Dick? Well, he'd finally resigned his position with Blüdhaven PD, having used up every second of vacation, and sick time he had coming after five years, and begged and borrowed more from his partner. But when his bosses had given the ultimatum - _come back to work, or don't come back at all_ -he'd walked away without a second glance. He'd left behind a steady -if somewhat flighty -girlfriend, his new friends, his partner, his job, his apartment… all without thinking twice.

And of course, Gotham had noticed their mission as well. Criminals, growing ever more bold, had taken notice of the decreased patrols of the Bat family, with crime rates spiking across the city, even in areas that had once been considered 'safe'.

He and Tim had caught the special report on GCN, by one Vicki Vale. Detailing the ever-building tidal wave of robbery, assault, rape, and murder, before demanding to know where Batman was. Where had he disappeared to? Why had he left the city in this, their hour of need? He was still _in_ the city, and had been spotted numerous times, but _apparently_ , he had better things to do than help the city that counted on him for its very survival. He had more _pressing_ concerns than his fellow citizens being raped and beaten and murdered.

Dick had been about two seconds away from chucking the nearest lamp through the screen, when - _to his eternal surprise_ -Tim had beaten him to the punch, launching a forty thousand-dollar, one-of-a-kind Ming Dynasty vase right through the center of Vale's perfectly done-up face.

And Alfred… Their one solid rock in any storm, hadn't even given them his classic ( _and, Dick would swear, patented_ ) looks of disappointment. He'd simply cleaned up the mess after Tim had stalked out of the house, patting Dick on the shoulder as he passed by with a dustpan full of shards of little black glass.

"Quit brooding. It's not helpful."

Dick rolled his eyes, barely resisting the urge to scoff at Bruce's words. Not helpful was an understatement. Nothing any of them had done in the last three months had been 'helpful' in any way, shape, or form. No amount of missed sleep, classes, or meals had been 'helpful' in the slightest, and they were no closer to finding him than they had been.

It'd been one year, and seven months since Jason Todd, aka Robin 2.0, aka Littlewing, aka Jaybird, had been killed in Ethiopia, trying to save his scumbag of a mother. Beaten to death, and then blown to bits along with said mother, courtesy of the Joker.

It'd been one year, six months, and two weeks since the Joker had sent them recorded footage of said-incident. Since that fateful day when Dick, Barbara, Bruce, and Alfred had watched the crowbar fall again, and again, and again. Watched Jason pull himself to the door. Watched him realize he couldn't escape. Watched his eyes lock onto the source of the beeping sound as the bomb slowly ticked down. Watched the acceptance etch itself onto his youthful face, moments before an explosion shorted out the screen.

It'd been eleven months, three weeks, and two days since they'd first heard the whispers. That Joker had taken over Arkham Asylum, and was busily occupying himself with his latest toy.

It'd been one year, two months, one week, and five days since Batman, Nightwing, and Robin had snuck their way into the deepest recesses of the building.

One year, two months, one week, and five days since Bruce had pulled the tarp off the figure hanging by a meat hook. One year, two months, one week, and five days since Jason had sobbed at their touch, his eyes swollen shut, shaking and panting as they'd gotten him down.

One year, two months, one week, and five days since Dick had puked in the corner of some dingy, one-time basement operating room at the sight of his little brother, beaten, broken, and bloodied. Since he'd seen the 'J' branded onto his baby brother's cheek. Since tears had rolled down his face, watching as Jason - _cocky, loudmouthed, afraid-of-nothing Jason_ -whimpered, trying to pull himself away from them on his shattered bones and bleeding skin.

It'd been one year, two months, two weeks, and one day since the doctors had told Bruce Wayne that his long-lost son was stabilized. That he was no longer physically in critical condition, although they wouldn't speak to his mental condition. He was, essentially, in a full body cast, but they'd broken, set, and reset all sixty-four fractures. Cleaned and stitched any still-open wounds. Cleansed his system of any traces of infection, and they were beginning the process of carefully weaning him off of the fear toxin that was running roughshod through his fragile system.

One year, three months, and four days since he'd first spoken. Since the seventeen year old had looked Bruce in the eye, and said pleadingly, "You should have just killed me. Why didn't you just kill me?"

One year, four months, one weeks, and four days since they'd brought him home to Wayne Manor. Since the nightly bouts of screaming, night terrors, and nightmares had started.

One year, four months, two weeks, and five days since Dick had found the scrawled, barely-legible note on Jason's bed.

 _Please don't look for me. Leave me alone. Please._


	2. Chapter 2

Patrick Fitzgerald sighed as he looked out the glass of his shopfront, a wave of pity shooting through his chest as he spotted the boy. For a few weeks now, the same figure had sat across the street from his deli, hood pulled tight around his face, arms wrapped around his knees, as if they were the only thing holding him together, and without them, he'd fly apart.

He'd seen kids like the boy before; hell, it was an all too common sight in the Bowery where he ran his deli. He'd seen more than his fair share of kids like him in the years he'd spent working in the business that had belonged to his father, and his grandfather, all the way back to his great-grandfather in the days when the Bowery had been just another part of Gotham. In the days when it was a working class neighborhood, instead of a place for the rest of the city to throw its rejects, and criminals, its broken and damned, its lost souls. And this boy definitely fell into more than one of those four categories, his hunched over form speaking to whatever hell he'd came from.

"Katie, grab me one o' those sandwiches, will ya?" He asked, giving his daughter a smile as she rolled her eyes good-naturedly.

"Keep this up, dad, and we won't have anything to give the actual customers," She joked, tossing a pastrami melt to him as he moved towards the door, her voice sounding proud despite her words.

"Eh, we don't get too many of those anymore anyways," He said, giving her a wink as he exited the small building, walking across the street, his movements slow, but steady.

He knew the kid had seen him coming as soon as he'd stepped foot on the sidewalk; his entire body tensed tighter than a bow string, fingers twitching madly around his cigarette, drawing in tighter on himself if possible as the hood turned in Pat's general direction, still unable to make out from than a chin of the figure hiding underneath.

Pat made sure to stop a few yards away, hand outstretched with the sandwich in view. From his new vantage point, he could see the crooked, mutilated fingers on the hand with the cigarette, the scars on the back of his palm disappearing up underneath his sleeve. And he wasn't really a 'kid', in the traditional sense either. He looked to be in his late teens, still technically not an adult in most places, but more than enough to disqualify him from a 'child' in the Bowery.

"S'alright, boyo, I ain't gonna hurt ya. Jus' figured ya might be hungry. Pastrami melt," He said, his voice gentle as he set the paper-wrapped sandwich down, sliding it a foot or two closer to the boy, and then withdrawing back a few feet, keeping his hands visible in front of him.

There was a split-second of hesitation in the boy's body language, before, faster than a snake, he grabbed the offering, retreating back to his former position against the wall, eyes locking on Pat's for a fraction of a moment before disappearing back into the hood. If he wasn't holding the sandwich, Pat wouldn't have been sure if he'd actually moved or not, it'd all happened so fast, his hands shaking on the paper as he shoved it into the pocket of his red hoodie.

There were a hundred things Pat wanted to say. To prove that humanity wasn't all the awful bastards who'd carved up his hands like a Christmas turkey, and branded his face like cattle, that there were people out there who would care for him. Who'd help him heal, instead of hurting him. That there were places he could go where he could be safe from the cruelty and the hell he'd known, where no one would hurt him like that again.

But he didn't say any of it. Years of experience had taught him that the boy wouldn't believe him anyways; that he'd probably just bolt, never to be seen again, if Pat said anything of that nature, spooked that someone had noticed him closely enough to care, to comment on his appearance.

Like it wasn't obvious to anyone with half a brain that somebody had tortured the poor kid.

So, keeping in all the things he wanted to say, biting back a curse towards a God who'd abandoned the Bowery and those who lived in it, Pat simply gave the boy a tired smile as he turned back to head towards the deli.

"If you wanna drink, jus' come ask."

"Th… Thanks."

The voice sounded harsh from disuse, low and rough, but it still made Pat smile.

"Don't mention it."

* * *

Alfred sighed as he stepped into the Cave, a feeling of hopelessness washing over him in waves as he took in the scene in front of him.

Master Bruce was asleep, chin propped up on one fist, in front of the monumental computer screen, a picture of Master Jason on one side, and a multitude of photographs being compared against it on the other.

Master Richard was flopped rather unceremoniously over the arm chair he'd so often slept curled up in as a child, although he'd long since outgrew it, and now hung haphazardly, one foot unbooted, and dangling over the arm, the other still retaining its footwear, and resting on the ground. His head draped at an odd angle, somewhere between the back of the chair and the side, propped up by an arm tucked behind it.

And Master Timothy was unsightly, a rather large pile of drool pooling to one side of his face where it lay on his desk, Robin mask off-kilter, a can of those awful energy drinks still firmly in one hand, snoring lightly and shifting in his sleep every few minutes.

Feeling the weight of his years, Alfred moved about the cave, grabbing two blankets, and carefully covering each of the boys as best he could against the Cave's cool chill, knowing that attempting the same thing with Master Bruce would disturb whatever slumber the poor man was getting. This was the first time he'd seen his family sleep at the same time since Master Jason had disappeared, and he wasn't about to ruin whatever peace that sleep might bring them.

To lose Master Jason -who steadfastly refused to answer to that moniker -in Ethiopia had been hard enough; Masters Bruce and Richard, and himself, had nearly succumbed to their grief at various points over the following year, Master Timothy's presence doing little more than throwing a plaster over a gunshot wound. But to find out that he'd survived… That he'd survived, and been held captive all that time, by the Joker… Less than fifty miles from the home where they'd grieved him -where they'd buried him -had been like a knife in Alfred's soul.

To lose him again, less than a week after his homecoming…

He sighed again, shifting his shoulders about as he shook off his dark thoughts. There was little enough holding the family together right then. Too little hope, and far too much darkness. The family needed him to keep it together, to hold down the home front, to not surrender to his despair, so that they could do what they needed to do.

And he'd be bloody damned if he didn't do his part.


End file.
